


Give Me Hope In The Darkness

by Evealle



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crossover, Explicit Language, Gen, M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-29 12:59:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evealle/pseuds/Evealle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is a hollow man after the death of Sherlock Holmes, living in an empty world. Until, one by one, people from his past start reappearing in his life, old friends and comrades. Only...he's not sure he wants them back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Washed Out In The Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ohhstark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohhstark/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  

John had been living in silence. Nothing broke through to him. He was simply a ghost, trespassing on the world of the living. For he was no longer alive - living, blogging, crime solving. He had been dead for nearly a year but stuck in a still functioning body that had refused to die with the rest of him. He had been hollowed out, fading to nothing, his mind stuck in a void of endlessly falling, falling...

He was just a shell with a pretense of a life. Eventually, he had to go back to work, picking up a shift at the clinic. He had refused to give up the flat though, and in the evenings he would come home - if he could call it a home anymore - and just sit in his armchair, doing nothing. It was an interminable pattern, blurring his days, stretching out the months. Sometimes he forgot to sleep. He rarely ate. Slowly, he began to waste away.

He barely noticed. The world around him meant nothing. The world was empty to him.

Empty.

Empty.

Lonely and desolate. There was nothing left in the world for him. He led his pretend little life, going to work, offering a modicum of help to his patients, and coming home to nothing.

* * *

 

Riiing, riiiing.

Riiing, riiing.

John glanced up with little interest from his spot on the couch. His phone lay a few feet away on the coffee table.

_Coffee table. Bare feet, pale ankles showing under trousers. The whirl of a dressing gown and the impatience to bother walking around the obstructive piece of furniture. Firm footstep up and over to the carpet beyond._

Too much effort. He didn’t want to lift his arm up, lean forward the few necessary inches, and reach his hand to his ringing phone. He just stared at it. On its final ring, a spark of impossible hope urged him on, and he lunged forward.

“Hello?” He answered quickly, breathlessly, the hope suddenly igniting and exploding through his mind.

“Uh...Is Bill there?” The voice was gruff, Northern, and completely and totally not the voice John had hoped, wished, thought for just a second that it would be.

“Bill?” He repeated dumbly.

“Sorry,” the man replied after a fraction of a pause. “I think I must have the wrong number.”

“Oh,” John said. He sat on the couch, phone to his ear, staring off across the room. He realized a moment later that his phone had gone silent and he looked down at it to see that the man had rung off, whoever he was. The time of the call blinked steadily up at him. 00:13. Thirteen seconds. Then he spent the rest of the evening in pain from the wish he had dared to wish.

* * *

 

Work at the clinic was going the same as it ever went. John could barely remember what patients he’d seen that day, though it was only mid-afternoon. He left the exam room to go pick up the file on his next patient. He happened to glance out into the waiting room and froze. That face. He knew that face, knew that man. Of course he did. Now he stopped to look, John definitely recognized him, would never forget that stern face, sharp nose, dark eyes that struggled to absorb themselves in one of the magazines from the office table.

A jolt ran through John, a series of memories triggering inside his head. It couldn’t be. Yet it was. Before the man could look up and catch sight of him, John ducked down the hallway, slipping back into the exam room.

“Blimey,” his patient, a middle aged man with a troublesome cough, commented, looking him over. “You all right mate? You don’t half look pale.”

* * *

 

The phone call suddenly make sense. He should’ve recognized the voice. Granted, it had been a while, and it was not someone he was expecting to hear from. Well, no. He’d been expecting a call from a dead man.

John leaned back in his armchair, his tea growing cold at his elbow. He wasn’t sure he could return to that world now, pull those particular ghosts from his past back into his life. He had long since set them out of his mind. And while he had missed it once, he had been just as haunted by some of the things that had happened in Afghanistan.

Still, there had been Sherlock. He had walked in the battlefield once more. He had picked up his gun again and shouldered his authority. And now that Sherlock was...gone, he wasn’t sure he could go back to that life. He couldn't stand the memories of the battlefield. Not anymore. Not when he was so alone. And picking up contact again with that part of his life was like going back to it. He just didn’t think he could.

* * *

John received another phone call. His heart had leapt to his mouth as he stared down at his phone. Surely it couldn’t be him again, realizing who he actually called and calling back for a proper chat. John didn’t want a proper chat.

He didn’t know why he answered it. Later, he regretted it.

“Hello?”

“Allo, lad,” came a friendly voice. John froze. “What? Has it been so long that you’ve forgotten my voice?”

John swallowed. “Bill. Hi.”

“You’ve not been coming to the pub of late,” Bill Murray complained. “I have been passing on invites. We’ve not seen you for near six months. Whatcha been up to, then?”

Bringing his hand to his face, he rubbed his eyes wearily. “Not much. Work, mostly.”

“I heard about tha’ friend of yours,” Bill continued, sinking the conversation even lower for John. “I’m very sorry, John.”

“Yeah,” John replied tersely.

Silence fell between them. “Well,” Bill said after a moment’s awkward pause, “I heard from Thomas the other evening. He’s back home and all.” John didn’t speak. “We’re thinking of having a little get together this weekend. All the old crowd. You’ll come to that at least, won’t you?”

“Um.” John was violently chewing his lip, his face still buried in his hand. “I dunno. I’ll have to see. I’ll get back t’you, yeah?”

“You can’t stay away from us forever, lad,” Bill said gently. “We’d all be glad to see you if you decide to come.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“We’ll be at the usual place. This Saturday, ‘bout eight?” John nodded, forgetting there was no one to see him. “Hope we see you there.”

Bill rung off, and John sat for a long time with his head in his hands. His old fucking army mates. He didn’t want to see them. Didn’t want to go. He wasn’t going to. That was it. He didn’t want the sympathy. Didn’t want to have to talk about how he was. He didn’t want to have to pretend to joke and laugh and have a good time. Sod it. If nothing else, he’d probably spoil their stupid party because he was such miserable company. He’d stay home for their sakes, so they could enjoy their evening without feeling guilty for him being so morose. 

* * *

 

Saturday. Day off. He sat in front of the television, not really watching it. Mrs Hudson came up at one point to invite him down for a cuppa. He declined. An hour or so later, he heard a slight disturbance downstairs. A knock at the door, perhaps. A muffled conversation. Delivery, maybe. Or perhaps someone was finally going to rent the squalid 221C.

Then he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Feeling slightly detached from the noise - not Mrs Hudson’s feet, too heavy - he frowned, still staring at the tv.

“Well, then,” came a sudden voice. “John Watson. It’s been a while, hasn’t it. Didn’t think I’d find you like this, though - hunched up in front of the telly.”

Hearing the voice, John’s eyes flew wide and he whirled around to look towards the doorway. The man leaning there was tall, dark haired, and smiling at him - his usual half smile, half smirk.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Thomas Oachs raised his eyebrows at the anger of the voice. “Right. Sorry, John. I thought I’d stop by. Say hello?”

John quickly tried to reel back in his anger at being burst in on like this. “Uh, but. The party...thing tonight. Couldn’t it’ve waited till then?”

“Like you were going to come,” Thomas scoffed. John’s mouth twitched with embarrassment and annoyance. “I wanted to stop off and see you while I could.”

“Well...here I am,” John replied sharply.

Thomas frowned, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Sorry, John, d’you want me t’go? I didn’t mean to anger you. It’s been ages since I’ve seen you. I only wanted to catch up a bit.” John clenched his teeth. Thomas shook his head, turning his gaze to the floor. “We used to be such good friends. I thought, anyway.”

“I don’t - “ John broke off with a sigh. “I haven’t been doing very well with ‘good friends’ lately. I think I’ve forgotten how.”

Thomas looked up at him, studying him intently, looking somewhat confused. “Perhaps I’d better go then,” he said after a moment.

“Yes,” John nodded. “Yes, perhaps that’d be best.”

Thomas hesitated then walked over to where John sat, pulling out a crumpled receipt from his pocket and scribbling something on it. “Look,” he said, handing it to John, shoving it into his hand, “call me. Sometime. Anytime.”

John nodded again. “Sorry, Tom,” he told the man quietly, staring down at the paper in his hand, eyes scanning the number written there.

“It’s fine,” came the reply. “Good to see you anyway, John. Keep in touch.”

John sighed and leaned back into the cushions of his chair. He probably wouldn’t.

* * *

His eyes strayed to the clock on his phone at quarter to eight. If he’d had the incentive, he could’ve gotten up and gone to that stupid night out at the ‘usual place’, the old pub down Great Marlborough. A jolly good ‘lad’s night’ at the Green Dragon. If he’d had the incentive. If he’d wished for an evening of jokes and reminiscing and seeing all the old faces. Frankly, it was the last thing he wished for.

Instead, he remained at home and stayed up too late doing nothing in particular. He still had a day off. He could sleep as long as needed. All day, likely as not. He had nothing to be awake for.

The surprise came around eight in the morning - an hour he had come to prefer to keep his distance from when he could. He’d fallen asleep on the couch, his cheek pressed against the Union Jack cushion he kept meaning to get rid of, his mouth gaping, an arm twisted uncomfortably beneath him. It came in the form of two men bursting into the room, stumbling against each other, and hailing him in loud voices that instantly made them both wince.

“Wha -?” John mumbled blearily, looking up at the pair as they stared back at him.

“Well,” the one with curly dark hair said. “Don’t you look lovely.” John frowned crossly up at Keiran, dragging himself upright on the couch. His eyes were red and sleepless, and he could feel the trail of drool drying on his cheek.

“What’re you doing here?” He complained, voice thick with sleep.

The second man ran a hand through his cropped blonde hair and gave John a wry smile. “Sorry. We thought you’d be up already. You always used to be an early riser.” John scowled.

“We were worried when you didn’t turn up last night,” Keiran said, glancing over at Flynn. “Bill said you were coming.”

“I said I might,” John corrected, staring evenly up at the two.

“Oh.” Flynn hesitated. Then grinned. “Well, you missed one hell of a party. Everyone was there, ‘cept you,” he added quickly.

“It was just like the old days,” Keiran chimed in, smiling despite John’s stony face. “You shoulda come.”

John sighed, pushing himself to his feet. “Can I get you anything, or were you just going to stand there and chatter?”

They both frowned at him, Flynn eying him with concern. “A cup of tea would be fantastic,” Keiran said after a moment. John seized up his cane and started toward the kitchen. Flynn and Keiran exchanged another glance, then trailed after him. They leaned against the counter as John set about putting the tea on with a very put upon expression on his face, and they filled him in on the evening. “Benjy’s started wearing that ridiculous orange hat of his again,” Keiran was saying. “Pompoms and everything. He was right pissed that you weren’t there, mate.”

“Well, sorry,” John replied stiffly. He shoved mugs of tea at them. “Anything else?” He asked, almost daring them to request anything more of him.

“You wouldn’t have any aspirin, would you?” Flynn asked. “I’ve got a killer headache.”

* * *

John sighed with relief when they left. Admittedly, it didn’t take very long for them to leave. They quickly noticed that he wasn’t feeling very hospitable and were probably glad to be going as soon as they finished their tea. He waited till he heard the front door slam before limping downstairs and pounding his fist against the door of 221A.

Mrs Hudson opened it a minute later. “Good morning, dear,” she greeted him in a cheerful voice, ignoring the stormy expression on his face. “You’re up early,” she commented.

“Mrs Hudson,” he began, not bothering to respond to her pleasantries, “did you let those two men in to see me?”

“Yes, dear.”

He exhaled slowly. “Mrs Hudson, I would greatly appreciate if you didn’t just let anyone in to see me. Especially when you know that I don’t want to see them.”

She frowned at him, raising an eyebrow. “And how am I supposed to know who it is you want to see and who isn’t?”

“I don’t want to see anyone,” he replied sharply, annoyance crackling through his tone.

“John,” she said, matching his tone, “I am not your housekeeper, and I am not responsible for weeding through your visitors at the door. I’m not your...personal bouncer or bodyguard. You’re a grown man, you’ll have to deal with unwanted guests yourself. And frankly, I think it does you good. You’re not going to get any better locking yourself away in your rooms and never seeing your friends.”

“Are you saying that I’m doing badly?”

She sighed. “I know it’s hard on you, dear. I know you miss him. We all have to move on and - “

“Mrs Hudson,” he cut her off angrily. “We have just established that you are neither my housekeeper nor my bodyguard. Can you refrain, then, from being my mother?” He turned on his heel and returned upstairs, cane tapping forcefully against the floor. She sighed again and retreated back into her flat.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And here we go! I'll try my very best to keep it regularly updated, but I don't know how quickly the updates will come. I'll do my best! Currently rated for language mostly, but we'll see...
> 
> This is for my darling Andy, fellow Bagginshield lover. She is very, very lovely and read this over for me before I put it up.
> 
> Title from "Ghosts That We Knew" by Mumford & Sons


	2. The Ones Who Leave

The work week started again, same old cycle. He fell into his old patterns and did his best to put the disruptive weekend behind him. He was certain they would not come back, that the old friends would want nothing to do with him now they saw what he’d become. One less thing to deal with. He was happy enough for that. Or he would’ve been. He was too numb to be happy. Things happened around him, and he couldn’t be bothered to feel affected by them anymore.

John repeated this to himself as he left 221B a few mornings later. One less thing to deal with. It was relieving. He had too much, too much right now. His head was too full to -

_Riiing, riiing._

He froze, stumbling, his cane jarring against the pavement. He fumbled around in his coat pocket before finally retrieving the phone. Hesitating, John stared at it a moment before he answered it. “Hello?”

“John, hi. It’s me...It’s Tom.”

John swallowed, not responding for a moment. “Tom,” he said finally.

“Look, I wanted to apologize for the other day. I understand things aren’t great for you - “

John cut him off sharply. “Tom, it’s not really a good time right now. I’m on my way into work. Can I call you back later?”

There was a moment of hesitation on the end of the line. “Fine,” Tom replied. “Sure.”

John hastily stuffed his phone back into his pocket and hailed a cab.

* * *

Fate, he decided that evening when he stopped to buy some tea and spotted Sally Donovan in the shop, was a total bitch. Fate, coincidence, destiny, all complete bitches. Sally Donovan, John decided as she spotted him and began to approach, was worse than any of them.

“John, hi,” she greeted him, offering a friendly smile. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it.”

“Hullo Sally,” he said without inflection.

“How are you?” She asked him, her interest sounding annoyingly sincere.

“Fine,” he told her.

Sally frowned at him. “I haven’t seen you since the funeral.” He didn’t need the reminder. His eyes fell to his shoes. She cleared her throat awkwardly. “We’ve missed you, you know,” she told him. “I know you don’t have a reason to work with us anymore, without him, but if you ever wanted to stop by, say hello, or meet for a drink, I know everyone’d be happy to see you.”

“Great,” he mumbled, shifting his weight off his bad leg.

“Right,” she replied slowly. She sounded unsure of herself for once. John hoped she’d just give up and walk away. “Look, John,” Sally began instead, “I know you miss him...And I do too, in a way. And I’m really sorry about what happened...If you ever need anything, just let me know, okay?”

John gave a hollow laugh. “What could I possibly need from you?”

“If...” she hesitated. “If you ever need to talk or anything. I know what it’s like to lose someone you - “  
Angrily, John through down the box of tea he’d been holding and stalked out of the shop, leaving her standing behind, staring after him. Fuck her. He was fine. He didn’t need anyone’s help.

He walked all the way to the flat, pain searing up his leg with every step. He was too upset to care. The pain felt good right then, with anger coursing through him, spurring him forward. He was fed up with everyone making his life their business. It wasn’t anyone’s goddamn business. It was his life, his own. He belonged to no one. Not...Not anymore.

John ground his teeth down on the thought and quickened his pace as best he could, longing for the safety of the flat. Little could touch him there but memories. Until the previous week’s disturbances, that was.

Entering 221B, he struggled up the staircase, shutting the door to the rooms upstairs and locking it behind himself. He then proceeded to turn his mobile off, flinging it across the room where it fell between the cushions of the couch. No one could reach him now, he told himself. He needn’t answer the phone or let in anyone who tried to come in.

He stayed up the entire night, hunched over his laptop, going through his blog and old newspaper articles for the thousandth time. It hurt as much as it ever did, but he needed to see the pictures, read the accounts of their time together. He didn’t mind ‘confirmed bachelor’ anymore. He didn’t mind half the things he’d once complained about on his blog, longed for them even. All the memories came back to him, aching as he remembered.

Screeching strings, the same four notes. Glaring neon numbers in the darkness, 4:07. Bleary eyes, soft footsteps padding down thinly carpeted stairs. A shouted complaint and a bored reply. Complaint ignored. The same four notes.

Dawn crept in on him. He’d been sitting for the last hour staring at the entry he wrote after meeting Sherlock. He wished he could relive every word, every second of it. He wished he could have the chance to go back, make it all different. Me and the madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes.  
He wasn’t mad at all. John was mad. Mad for ever losing him. He gave a sharp intake of breath as the tears stung his eyes. He scrunched them tightly closed, shutting everything out.

Hunched over his desk after a night of no sleep, he could almost picture he was back, back in the ‘old days’. He could almost hear footsteps pacing the flat in annoyance. A case unsolved or no work at all. It was so familiar, this sleepless feeling, a night at the computer, it took him back to that time.

Unbidden, his mind took him back even further. To other sleepless nights, muscles aching from long days, eyelids straining for sleep. They had sat on watch together, swapping memories of home, such that it was. Two comrades, brothers in arms. John had watched the other man, meticulously cleaning his rifle with a cigarette delicately perched at his lips, and he had felt...But John couldn’t even remember what he’d felt anymore. It’d been too long. Too much had passed.

John opened his eyes, meeting the gaze of his own picture on his blog. He wanted to punch the smug smile off his own face.

It was too much. It was all too much. The memories, the wishes, they were too much for him. Too overwhelming. He struggled to his feet, doing his best to empty his mind. He needed tea. Seizing his cane from where it leaned against the desk, he limped into the kitchen. A quick glance into the cupboards reminded him that he’d failed to buy it yesterday following his encounter with Sally.

Coat. Keys. He stumbled out of the door of 221B, pulling it shut behind him. The early morning air was chill against his exposed skin. The thought of a soft, striped scarf came -

“John.”

The low voice broke through the early morning stillness. John whirled around. “What the hell do you want?” He growled.

Tom looked taken aback held his ground, eyes calmly meeting John’s. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“What, so you staked out my flat? Fucking hell, it’s barely half six.”

“It was important,” Tom replied.

“What the hell could be so important?” John stared down Thomas Oachs, an expectant look on his face. “Well?” he prompted when he received no reply.

Tom finally dropped his gaze. “I didn’t realize when I talked to you before,” he said, his voice still low. His hand raised, and he ran his hand over the back of his neck, looking awkward. “I’ve been out of the country. No one told me. The other day, If I’d known, I wouldn’t have.” John was glowering at him as he rambled on. He could sense the direction this was headed. “I’m very sorry for your loss -“

“Shut up,” John spat before Tom could finish the final word. “Shut the fuck up. Right now.” He made his way down the steps and pushed past Tom, no longer looking at him.

“What,” Tom called after him, “you won’t even talk to me?”

“And why should I?” John demanded, spinning to face the man. “I’m sick of it all. All the pity, the concerned glances. You all think I’m broken. I’m fine, okay? I don’t need your fucking help, any of you,” he ranted.

“Why would I offer you help?” Tom asked him with a frown. His expression clouded. “I know you’d be too proud to accept.”

“Me? Proud?” John shouted. “That’s rich coming from you. Just fuck off, okay?”

“Right,” Tom sneered. “‘Not doing too well with friends?’ Seeing the reason now. It’s your own fucking fault. Maybe you wouldn’t be so ‘broken’ if you didn’t push everyone away.”

“How dare you - “ John broke off, grinding his teeth. When he spoke, his voice was dangerously quiet. “I don’t want you in my life again. I don’t want to see you or any of the others ever again. I’m done with that. I’ve moved on.” He spun on his heel and stalked off, away from his once friend.

“Yes,” Tom scoffed at his back. “And what a splendid job you’ve done of that.”

* * *

The encounter haunted him the rest of the day, try as he might to put it from his mind. John was irritable with his patients, earning himself a complaint from at least one of them. He couldn’t bring himself to care. He just wanted to get home. At the end of the day, he exited the building quickly, slipping into a cab and returning to Baker Street. He quickly sank into bed and into a restless sleep, where he was haunted by old dreams.

“Watson ” The scream echoed through his mind, and his eyes flew open. He shot upright, hauling himself out of his dream, the battlefield. Panting for breath, his hand flew to his shoulder, assuring himself that the pain he felt there was imaginary, left over from the nightmare. His eyes flicked around the room, making out the dim objects, placing himself back in 221B, not Afghanistan.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet contacting firmly with the cold floor. With regret, he remembered that he’d again neglected to buy any tea. Leaning forward, he dropped his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes slowly. He was haunted by ghosts, nothing more. There was nothing more that could reach him.

Moriarty was gone. Sh...Sherlock was gone. Thomas would undoubtedly never return after that morning. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Sally, they were all pulling away from him now. There was no one left for him.

Maybe you wouldn’t be so ‘broken’ if you didn’t push everyone away.

He wasn’t broken. He was fine. He was empty. He couldn’t be broken if there was nothing to break.

He was numb, he thought. Nothing touched him. He had felt nothing in months. No change there. There was nothing that could change that now.

Except, he told himself, that wasn’t quite true was it? He had felt something that past week. He had been angered, enraged even, by old friends presuming to drop back into his life just like that. By newer friends trying to offer him help. That was something of a change. He hadn’t lashed out like that in a very long time.

He’d been lying to himself, pretending to be numb, out of it all. Maybe it was easier that way. But it wasn’t true. He still felt the pain. In every step, with every breath. The pain engulfed him, threatening to drown him. But he didn’t want to move on, didn’t want to lessen the pain at all. The pain kept the memories with him.

Above all, he was afraid of forgetting. He didn’t want the memories to fade. So he clung to his grief as if clinging to it would help him hold onto him...to Sherlock. As he had failed to do in life.

John was incomplete without Sherlock. That much had been established during their life together. And vice versa. They were a pair. They functioned as one. And John knew there was no way he could be whole anymore. So he clung to the pain. It was all he had left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst. Angst. Angst. I mean, what? There might be some respite from it in the next chapter (seriously, it's about time)
> 
> Points to you if you recognize my chapter titles! (But it's absolutely unnecessary, and they're a bit obscure, some of them.)


	3. Elaborate Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Benjamin makes an entrance and things begin to brighten up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me now, dear readers. First, for the long wait for this chapter. I didn't mean to do that. Second, for the POV switch that happens in the middle of this chapter. I know it's a bit startling at this point in the narrative. But I need to occasionally get out of John's head to tell the entire story. Introduction of the Fili/Ori storyline as well.

The days really were silent after that. He received no calls, no visits from old friends he’d left behind. Even Mrs Hudson was leaving him alone. John began to regret the way he’d acted. Towards Tom. And Sally. And Mrs Hudson. Even Flynn and Keiran, thick skinned as they were. But especially Tom. _Shit._

He sat at the kitchen table, hands nestled round a cup of tea, which he’d finally remembered to buy. After he finished it, he stood up and limped across the room to the couch, rooting around in the cushions for a moment before unearthing his phone, still wedged where he had thrown it earlier.

Returning to the kitchen, he sank back into his chair, studying the phone. He had no idea what he was going to say. But he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled scrap of paper with a string of numbers scrawled on it. Carefully typing them into his phone, he hit send. By the fourth ring, John began to get nervous. He probably wouldn’t answer. He probably didn’t want to talk to John ever a -

“Hello?”

“It’s John.” His voice trembled slightly.

“I see,” came the response, in a dark, even voice.

John hesitated, chewing his lip. He didn’t know what he should say next, what he could say that would be both sincere and a good enough apology. “Tom,” he said finally, “I’m sorry. I didn’t - “

Tom cut him off. “You already expressed your deepest desire never to speak to me again. The feeling’s mutual, John. Just leave it.”

“Tom, wait - “ John protested, but the line was already dead. Muttering a curse, he dropped the phone to the table, resting his chin on his hands with a sigh. He needed to fix it. All the things he’d lost, all the things he’d failed to do, he couldn’t fail now. He couldn’t afford to push anyone else away, Tom had been right. He had to fix it.

He wasn’t struck by any ideas on how to do that before the night was over, though. And sleep seemed by far the best plan for the time being. Come morning, he got stiffly out of bed, slowly getting ready for work. One cup of coffee later, John made his way down the stairs and out of the house. Opening the door of 221B, he came close to walking straight into a man on the doorstep, whose outstretched fist indicated that he was about to knock.

“Oh,” the man said, grinning and drawing back, dropping his hand and pulling off his orange hat. “Sorry.”

“God, Benjamin,” John frowned, startled, “don’t you lot ever wait to be invited before converging on my flat?”

“Yeah, heard about that,” Benjamin winced apologetically. Keiran and Flynn and, John supposed, Tom must’ve told Benjamin the stories of their respective visits. And John’s...reluctance to see them. “D’you want me t’go?”

John sighed. He had to start somewhere. “Well...no. But I’ve got to be at work in twenty minutes.”

Benjamin began shuffling backwards. “Oh, right. ‘Course. I’ll come another time maybe...”

“No, no,” John insisted, sighing again, beckoning the man inside. “Sod that, just come in. I’ll make tea.” Benjamin grinned again and followed John upstairs. He wondered why Benjamin had come now, especially after the others had told him of their attempts to see John. He’d assumed they’d all given him up. It’d had certainly seemed that way. John hadn’t been sure how he was going to make his way back into that group of friends to make his amends.

Once he set two cups of tea in front of them on the kitchen table, John slid into the seat opposite Benjamin. “So.” He began. “You’ve come to see the recluse. Heard the stories and got curious?”

“If you’re trying to be a bit more hospitable than during your last encounters with your close friends,” Benjamin said dryly, “which has hitherto seemed t’ be the case seeing as you actually let me in the door - you’re not doing very well.”

John cleared his throat. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

Benjamin nodded, setting his hat on the table. John frowned it. It was hideous piece of clothing (knitted bright orange with a pompom at the top and earflaps), tied with memories. Benjamin had worn that in the ‘old days’ too, despite them all taking the piss out of him for it. He had insisted on wearing it though, telling them it had been a present from his mum. This did nothing to stop them laughing, John recalled. It was absolutely the ugliest hat any of them had ever seen. Benjamin cleared his throat, and John pulled his eyes away from it. “But you’re right in one respect,” Benjamin told him. “They’re all talking ‘bout you. Can’t figure out why you’re being such a gloomy bastard.”

“What?” John was half insulted, half surprised that they were confused. He thought the reason would be quite clear. Sherlock’s...death had been all over the papers. The same papers had also detailed how close he and John were, half of it just speculation but the gist was in there. He would’ve thought the reason for his grief was obvious.

“Well,” Benjamin amended, barely listening to him, “I say all. Tom’s barely said a word about you since he came to see you the other day. He’s just been ticked off, to put it mildly. Downright moody. Bites your head off if you try to talk to him, that sort of thing. We’ve all just been trying t’ stay away from him. What the bloody hell did’ya say to him?”

John shook his head wearily. “Told him to fuck off. That I never wanted to see him again.”

“Oh, right,” Benjamin snorted, rolling his eyes. “So, that’s why he’s bent outta shape. What the fuck happened t’ you two? You used to be best mates.”

“I haven’t really in a...great place lately,” John replied, massaging his eyes.

“Taking it out on your friends always helps,” Benjamin assured him sarcastically.

“You don’t know, then?”

“Whatcha mean?” Benjamin tipped his head to the side. John resigned himself to saying it aloud. Before he could form the words, though, the other man went on. “About your friend, Sherlock Holmes?” John gave a fraction of a nod. “Of course I know. We all do.” Benjamin’s voice had more of an edge of seriousness to it. “Well, now anyway. I’m very sorry, mate. Really.”

John hated the apologies. The sympathy. They drove him mental, made him want to scream, _What the fuck can you do about it? What the fuck do you know about it?_ He bit back the bitterness that collected as he listened to Benjamin’s condolences, doing his best to ignore the words and the thoughts in his head. “So what couldn’t you understand?” he asked.

“Mate,” Benjamin said, tone almost gentle, “it’s been nearly a year. We thought you’d be better by now.”

“My best friend d-dies and you think I’m going to just be over it?”

“I didn’t say ‘over it’, did I?” Benjamin shook his head. “Look, we thought you’d want some company again, not be alone anymore. And you hadn’t exactly been accepting our offers of friendship since, well, you know, Sherlock, but what with Tom was getting back in the country and all of us were assembling again, it seemed only natural that we reach out t’ you. We are you friends, after all. Unless you’ve given up on the concept entirely.”

John paused. They were Thomas’s words he heard, though said in Benjamin’s cheerful tone. “Course I haven’t,” he replied in a quiet voice. _Friends protect people_. He pushed back his chair suddenly and stood, turning away from Benjamin. John clutched at the cold tile surface of the counter and struggled to push past the lump in his throat. “I’m trying, Benjy,” he said with something fierce in his voice, speaking low, using the affectionate nickname to try and soften his words. “I’m trying. It’s just...difficult.”

He could here Benjamin get to his feet behind him, but the man didn’t speak. John wasn’t surprised. He wouldn’t know what to say to himself either if he were in Benjamin’s place. An arm fell across his shoulders, and then Benjamin’s hand was squeezing his own arm. “It’ll take time, I imagine...Look, I think I’m going to head off, mate, but if you need anything, give me a call.”

“Right,” John nodded. Benjamin clapped him on the back.

“Good t’ see you more yourself again, the fighting spirit,” he grinned as John saw him to the door. There he paused and tugged his orange hat back over his head. When he stepped outside, Benjamin turned back to John. “Make up with Thomas, will you?” With a wave, he was gone.

Swallowing, John shut the door after him. Then he called in sick and went back up to bed. Progress, he supposed. They’d made it through a cup of tea without any serious arguments or bitterness. John still felt miserable, (Default emotion, he had come to believe) probably thanks to Benjamin’s parting words, not to mention all the discussion of Sherlock. With that feeling, he fell asleep.

He awoke several hours later with determination. He was ready to talk to Thomas again and fix the bloody mess he’d made. Pulling himself out of bed, he grabbed his cane and shuffled down to the living room to find his jacket and phone.

“Oh ” Mrs Hudson cried when he walked in, straightening up, dust cloth in hand. “You startled me, dear. Sorry, I thought you were at work. I was just doing the dusting.”

“It’s okay, Mrs Hudson. I took the day off.” He shrugged into his coat, pocketing his phone and his keys.

There was an expectant silence, like she wanted to say something, so John turned and looked at her. “Did you...have a visitor this morning?” She asked finally. He nodded and his landlady’s face broke into a tentative smile. “Good,” she replied. “I mean, I’m glad you’ve had a bit of company.”

He nodded again. “Right. Well. See you later, Mrs Hudson.” She nodded cheerily and waved him off.

Out in the street, he took a deep breath, ready to set off and accomplish this. He had to pause when he realized he had absolutely no idea where he was going. He didn’t know where Thomas lived anymore. Cursing to himself at the first setback, he pulled his phone from his pocket, knowing that somewhere he had Benjamin’s number.

* * *

Benjamin left Baker Street feeling better about the state of his friend. John was hardly ‘fine’, but he wasn’t as hopeless as Benjamin’s earlier conversation with Thomas and Bill had led him to think. Time and the support of his friends would heal all things in the end, Benjamin was certain. He caught a cab back to Islington that evening, stopping on the way to pick up Chinese takeaway. After bounding up the steps of the house Flynn, Keiran, and Oliver shared, he pounded on the door and let himself in with the set of keys he’d filched off the hall table on his way out that morning. “Oi! Savages I brought ya food.”

The previously deserted flat sprang to life as two figures jumped off the couch in the living room and rushed to the kitchen, after Benjamin. “Benjy!” Keiran beamed, ripping open the bag containing the food. “Fantastic, thanks.”

Flynn clapped Benjamin on the back. “What’s up with you, then?”

“Nothing much. Where’s Oliver?”

“Still at University. He had an exam this afternoon,” Flynn explained, shoving Keiran out of the way before he ate everything. “Said he might be back a bit late.”

“Try and save him some, yeah?” Benjamin grinned. “How’ve you two been, then?”

“Fine,” replied Flynn.

“Bored,” sighed Kieran through a full mouth.

“I saw John today.” The two choked, coughed, and stared at him.

“What, and you stand here unharmed?” Keiran said incredulously.

“Oh, come on,” Benjamin rolled his eyes. “He’s our friend, not a bloody dragon. What would he’ve done, munched my head off and incinerated me? Anyway, he’s smaller than me.”

“Based on the way Tom’s been acting the last few days, that’s exactly what I would’ve said would’ve happened. He’s like one of those tiny dogs that are twice as ferocious to make up for their size,” Flynn said.

Keiran dissolved into giggles, collapsing against the counter. “Who, Thomas?”

“Are you kidding me? He’s like 6'2 .” Flynn laughed. “He’s more like a noble hound.”

“Don’t you dare tell John you compared him to a Chihuahua,” Benjamin chuckled as tears streamed down Keiran’s face as he laughed even harder.

“Yeah,” Flynn agreed. “He might nip at your ankles.”

“Oh my god, stop, stop,” Keiran gasped as he struggled for breath, clutching his side.

“What’s happening?” Oliver asked, stepping into the kitchen, shrugging off his jacket.

“John’s...a Chihuahua,” Keiran managed through his laughter.

“Okay...” Oliver frowned, looking around at the three giggling men. “Whatever that means. It seems hilarious. Hi Benjamin.” Benjamin raised a hand in greeting. “I couldn’t find my keys this morning, so I took the spare set,” Oliver told Flynn, setting them down on the table.

“Oh, sorry, I guess I took them, Ollie.” Benjamin fished in his pocket and tossed the keys to him.

“Cheers,” Oliver nodded, catching them. Flynn leaned over and kissed his cheek, nuzzling his cheek slightly as he nudged a plate of food towards Oliver. As Flynn looped an arm around his waist, Oliver flushed and glanced at Benjamin. “Uh...” he began awkwardly.

“Oh, please,” Bofur sighed. “As if I didn’t watch you two get completely piss drunk at the pub the other evening and make out for half an hour. I know you’re together.”

“Wait, were you actually trying to hide that from us?” Keiran asked, rounding on them. “Because, honestly, least subtle attempt ever. I mean apart from you two living together, Flynn called everyone to tell us when he finally asked you out and he was beside himself with excitement. And again when you agreed to share this place with us. Besides, you two cuddle on the couch and...other stuff.” He looked vaguely embarrassed and purposefully didn’t meet Flynn’s eye.

“Course we’re not trying to hide it,” Flynn said with a laugh while, in the same breath, Ollie stammered, “Oh, uh, I didn’t think you knew...”

“Wait,” Flynn frowned, looking at Oliver. “You didn’t want them to know?”

“I didn’t know you told them anything,” Ollie replied.

“You never told me not to,” Flynn said in a clipped voice.

Benjamin glanced between the two of them. “So, uh, did I mention I saw John today?”

The tension between Oliver and Flynn faded as Ollie turned to him. “What?” His mouth dropped open. “Why didn’t you say so before?”

“Well, you just walked in the door,” Keiran said quickly. “Did he tell you what happened with Thomas?”

Benjamin shrugged. “Said some absolute shite to him, sounds like. But it’s always been bad when they’ve fought.”

“True enough,” Keiran agreed. “Will they make up soon d’you think?”

“God, I hope so,” Benjamin sighed. “Stubborn buggers. Just makes it hard on the rest of us.”

“How’s he doing?” Oliver asked.

“Better, I think.”

“I dunno how you could’ve said worse,” Keiran commented.

“Be right back,” Flynn muttered, stalking out of the room.

“Don’t even think about that,” Benjamin told him, laughing. “Jesus. No, I think he’s gonna be okay. I think you lot made everything up about how bad he was. Exaggerated it all, I bet. He’s just a bit down, that’s all.”

Flynn heard them all laugh as he reached the hallway, burying his head in his hands, letting his fingers rake through his hair.

A minute later Ollie joined him. “Flynn? Are you o-?”

Flynn cut him off. “Right, yeah. I’m fine. I just found out that my boyfriend is so ashamed of me that he thought we were keeping out entire relationship a secret. I’m just peachy.”

“Look, I didn’t mean it like that,” Ollie protested. “I just want to take thing slow, right?”

“Yeah, I knew that. That’s fine. But I didn’t know that meant not telling anyone.”

“I didn’t want to not tell anyone. I mean, I didn’t think we would keep it from Keiran. Not since he’s your best mate and we all live together.”

“Well, that was big of you,” Flynn sneered. “ _Are_ you ashamed of me? Is that what’s wrong?”

“God, no. Of course not,” Ollie insisted, reaching out a hand to Flynn. Flynn pulled away. Ollie dropped his gaze, letting his arm fall back to his side. “Look, Flynn. We’ve known each other for, how long, over ten years? We were in school together, then we served in the army together. For ages I looked up to you as the ‘cool kid’. Then you finally became my friend, and at some point I started seeing you as a brother. Last month we started dating and now we’re living together. That last bit happened so fast. I mean, I’m really happy that it _did_ happen, but I’m still trying to get my head around it sort of thing. I feel like we’re still figuring our relationship out,

what it’s become. I just thought it’d be better if we figured it out on our own without anyone else interfering.”

Flynn shook his head, sighing. “But you never thought you’d mention that to me? You never _said_ , Ollie How was I supposed to know?”

“Blimey,” Benjamin glanced at Keiran as the two listened from the kitchen.

“They’ve never appeared to want their relationship a secret,” Keiran shook his head, trying to puzzle it out. “I mean, they’ve always seemed to be pretty open about it, in public, not just here.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Benjamin chuckled.

Keiran grinned. “They’re affectionate drunks, aren’t they.” He winced as Flynn’s voice rose in the hallway behind him. “Though not so affectionate now.”

“Not so much,” Benjamin agreed. He began to say more but was cut off by his phone beginning to ring. He rummaged through his pockets, catching it on its final screeching bar of ‘Call Me Maybe’.

“Really?” Keiran raised an eyebrow as he heard the ringtone.

Benjamin shrugged. “It’s catchy,” then answered the call. “...John?” Keiran’s head shot up in interest, and he leaned forward trying to catch whatever John was saying. “Yeah, mate, sure,” Benjamin said into the phone, proceeding to rattle off an address, and, after a pause, saying, “No problem...good luck.”

“What was that?” Keiran demanded as Benjamin hung up, staring down at the phone with an odd expression.

“I think John’s going to go make up with Thomas.”

“What?”

Benjamin nodded. “Really. On his way now.”

“Jesus,” Keiran swore, “you must’ve said something good to persuade him to do that. I didn’t think he was capable of leaving his flat anymore.” He jumped to his feet and poked his head out of the kitchen. “Oi! John’s going to Thomas’s!”

Ollie and Flynn broke off in the middle of their argument, rounding on him. “What?” Ollie asked with confusion.

“John’s gonna go to see Thomas and make up,” Keiran told them. “Or maybe shout at him some more. Or maybe both, you never know.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Ollie smiled.

“Yeah, brilliant,” Flynn grumbled, turning on his heel and stalking away. They listened as his feet pounded up the stairs and, a moment later, his door slammed.

“Nothing like a grown man throwing a tantrum,” Keiran noted. Ollie’s face crumpled, and his softer step was next to run up the stairs. Keiran listened as Ollie tried to talk to Flynn through the door, and he sighed.

Benjamin appeared in the doorway beside him. “Hey, mate. Mind if I crash here tonight?”

Keiran shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case there is any confusion (there may not be since I haven't thrown all the dwarves at you at once): Fili is Flynn. Kili is Keiran. Bofur is Benjamin. Balin is Bill Murray (who is an actual character in the Sherlock world and he appears on John's official blog). Thorin is obviously Thomas.
> 
> For Benjamin's hat, think Jayne's from Firefly. Also, I haven't quite got the hang of writing him yet. I will improve!


	4. How Far We've Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time for us to take a journey and venture into the backstory and see some of the history of John and the company! 
> 
> I tried to do the best research I could about the British Army and read a lot of theories about how John Watson went about his career. I went with the option that pleased me the most for my version of the character and that fit the best with the story. And, after all, John mentions being both a soldier and an Army doctor. (And I can't help wanting him to have been as BAMF as possible.) If I've made any mistakes about the military side of things, please feel free to inform me.

John stood on the pavement outside Tom’s flat, staring up at the building. Apprehension filled his stomach as he remained immobile. He had never tried to picture where Tom might live, but he never would have imagined it like this. This place was much too civilized, too tame. Tom - rough and rugged - didn’t quite seem like he’d fit there. There was really only one place that Tom fit in John’s mind, and that was on the battlefield.

He couldn’t imagine Tom settling into a life of watching telly and working a boring job, coming home to his fancy flat for his tea in the evening. It was a life separate from the one they had shared together in Afghanistan. John had tried to avoid it himself, the immersion into boredom and normality. He had let Sherlock show him the battlefield of London and joined the consulting detective’s war. Anything to avoid becoming a normal civilian again. But here was Tom. Doing just that, it seemed. John hadn’t expected that.

His hand heavy, John tentatively pressed the bell. And then pressed it again a minute later when no response came. Of course. Either Tom was out, or he was ignoring John. The latter was entirely more likely. After standing on the front step a few minutes longer to wait for an answer, just in case, John realized he was wasting his time and resigned himself to being ignored. He turned on his heel and limped heavily back down the street. He would take a cab back to Baker Street.

* * *

John Watson had first been sent to Afghanistan as a doctor, a general practitioner. And at first, he found it very interesting. Squads and the like would come back to the base. He’d patch up the ones he could, just the ones with mild injuries, letting the surgeons deal with the major stuff. John would be left with the stories they would tell him about the fighting while they all trooped back out into the actual action of it all. He grew tired of living vicariously through the recounted battles. He began wishing he’d trained to be a trauma surgeon, a job with much more excitement than just tending to scrapes and cuts, a bandage and a kiss to make it better. Anything other than being a GP. Life was dull for him in the Royal Army Medical Corps. He began wishing he’d taken a different path into the army altogether, maybe become a military officer.

So, he did. After his stint as a doctor concluded, John began training as a soldier. There was a certain exhilaration in this. He would finally be living the stories, not sitting behind, relatively safe and comfy, waiting to hear a second hand account. The promise of adrenaline pumping through his veins was enough to get him through a year of officer’s training.

John had been the very last addition to his platoon, a part of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Many of the others knew one another well already. Some of them had grown up together and followed each other into the British Army, some sort of lifelong dream. All of them had more experience on the battlefield than he did. Frankly, he had never felt quite so out of place. Still, it was a relief to escape from his quiet – well quiet, a relative term since he had been working as a doctor in a heavy fighting zone in Afghanistan – job. His last years had been a little too safe. He was ready for a little excitement.

He met his platoon leader last. Captain Thomas Oachs. Apparently a bit of a hero, according to the lads of John’s platoon, Oachs's record was a shinning blaze of glory. His most recent daring deed had earned him his promotion to Captain. This pleased John when he was told this might mean Oachs would be leading specialized missions with sections of the platoon in future. He was less pleased with the gruff, surly man he had to take orders from.

John's feelings of being out of place were not in any way eased by meeting his new captain. Oachs had eyed him up and down with barely concealed contempt. “Is this the best they can give us these days?” John dropped his salute and bit back the retort he knew would only bring him trouble.

Later, it was Benjamin who approached John to make sure he was settling in. “Don't mind Tom,” he'd advised. “He can be an arse, to be sure, but he's a damn good soldier. He'll be going places, if he can only keep his temper in check. But he'll warm up to ya as soon as he's seen what you can do...You are at least pretty good, aren't ya? Only, most blokes your age are more than lieutenants.”

“This is sort of my second career,” John explained, somewhat irked to have his abilities questioned. Though why should they not be, really. “I was an army doctor for years before I joined the army. But yes. I'm...pretty good, if I say so myself.”

“All right, mate,” Benjamin grinned. “I believe ya. So, you became a soldier to make up for the time you spent trying to make people better? Bit ironic, don't you think? I would think it works the other way round, so you atone for all the people you shoot.”

“Suppose it's ironic, yeah.” He shrugged. “So, Captain Oachs, he has anger issues?” This was a concerning thought to John and quite frankly didn't seem like the best idea for an army captain.

The other man rolled his eyes. “He's just stubborn. Likes to have his own way. Which can be hell for us and has earned him a reputation as 'difficult' among the upper ranks. Just ask David,” Benjamin jerked his head towards a burly man with a bald head, covered in tattoos, “he's known Tom for ages. Got loads of great stories,” he chuckled, then clapped John on the shoulder and strode away, leaving John to ponder his new situation.

It had taken him a shorter time than he'd expected to fit into the platoon. He found that he got along well with most of the others. There were Flynn and Keiran, who were likely the most reckless and troublesome of them all as well as two of the youngest. John thought they might be brothers they were so close and shared so many similarities but was finally told they'd just grown up together, best friends, along with Ollie. Ollie was the very youngest. He was a little more timid than any of the others, but he always pulled it together on the battlefield. Bill, the oldest by contrast, was a good mate to him and was always happy to offer advice or just a chat. David was tough and one of the best soldiers among them. Owen, Glen, Norman, Dorian, Brian, and Bolton. He had never thought he would grow as close to all of them as he did. They became a family of sorts to him, which was nice for him since his own relations were nothing like a family to him.

And then they'd gone off on a terrible campaign. It was a few months after John had joined them. He'd gotten so used to all of his comrades. But then there had been an ambush. And John had done his best, employing the medical training that had been languishing within him for months, doing the best he could for his friends until the proper medical officers had arrived. But they carried too many bodies away. John didn't sleep that night. He sat outside, staring off into the black.

“Cigarette?” A low, gravelly voice disrupted his uncomfortable thoughts. He looked up to see his commanding officer offering out a pack. John shook his head mutely. Thomas nodded and lit one for himself. Though their relationship had smoothed over the months, especially after John impressed had Thomas with his sharpshooting abilities, John was surprised when Thomas silently sat down beside him. They were hardly close. “Today was horrible.” Thomas said after a moment.

“Yes,” John agreed.

“This morning, I had twenty-six men under my command. Good men. I was proud of them all. And now I only have thirteen. It takes a certain kind of incompetence to lose half of your soldiers, doesn't it.” He spoke bitterly; it wasn't a question.

John paused. He wasn't entirely sure what to say. “You don't really think today was your fault, do you? How could you have prevented what happened? We had no idea. No one could've known or acted better.”

“You're being nice, Watson, but I can't pretend they weren't my responsibility. They died because of me. Nine dead. Four badly wounded, to be invalided home. Though I suppose Brian will have to leave as well. The doctors told me that head wound has mucked up his hearing.” He took a long drag on his cigarette.

“But you can't blame yourself for what happened to them. We're fighting a war...shit like this happens. On both sides. You can't stop it from happening, you just have to do your best. And you did your best. I'm sorry, but you're a fantastic commanding officer. Today was horrible. But it wasn't your fault.” His words came out fiercely.

Thomas smiled a dry, humorless smile. “Thank you. You won't convince me or make me feel better, but it's nice of you to try.” They sat in silence for a few moments, Thomas blowing smoke gently into the cool, still night. “I do have to commend you for what you did today. When we got ambushed, that is. I had known you were a doctor before, of course. But I was impressed at the way you launched yourself into...doctoring them. Without faltering. It's only a pity that more of them couldn't be saved. Not your fault, of course.”

John felt awkward at the praise. He had acted instinctually. He had the training; he had had to use it. There was no more to it than that. He was no sort of hero or anything. “Thanks,” he muttered.

“It was an excellent demonstration of leadership,” Thomas went on, not noticing John's discomfort at the topic. “I wouldn't be surprised if it got you a promotion. It's about time you got promoted, anyway. You're good. Very good.” John would never have thought he would've been so unenthusiastic at the prospect of moving up in the ranks, but it was the last thing he wanted to talk about right now, not after today. He made no reply, and Thomas, perhaps sensing his feelings, finally stopped talking about it.

“Is it true that you've known Flynn and Keiran for a long time?” John asked out of the blue. He wasn't exactly sure why he said it as soon as it came out of his mouth. Just a change of topic, perhaps. Or an attempt to distract them both from...everything.

“Where'd you hear that?” Thomas asked, interest creeping into his voice.

“David mentioned it. Wasn't sure if it was true though.”

Thomas nodded. “It's true. I've known the little bastards since they were even younger little bastards. My sister used to babysit them. Sometimes she'd bring them back with her and they'd hang out at our house. I've often felt like they were my little brothers, or cousins maybe, rather than annoying whelps from down the street. I've known them for years, though.”

“And they followed you into the army?” John asked, fine with letting Thomas continue talking about his past. It was diverting.

“Something like that. They often trailed around after me and David when they got older. With Ollie at their heels. It could be like having three extra shadows.”

It was easy to picture. It was clear to John that the three young men did their best to imitate Thomas much of the time. They certainly looked up to him. He could imagine them following after Thomas in their teenage years, mimicking his ways. “But you're fond of them?” John found himself glancing over at Thomas for the first time as he asked this.

The man rolled his eyes, flicking ash away from his cigarette. “Yes, damn them. Infuriating as they are, I can't help it.”

John gave a small smile. “Yeah, I can't either.”

“They're good lads, I think. Beneath it all.” Thomas gave a low laugh. “Bloody hell, I sound like their father or something, don't I?”

Smiling again, John replied, “You do a bit. Do you have kids of your own?”

Thomas through him a sharp look. “What, me? Don't be daft, Watson.”

“Right, sorry I asked.”

His commanding officer shook his head. “No, it's fine. I don't mind. It's ridiculous for me to think about. I've always been a little bit too committed to my work or school to do well with women. Or anyone, for that matter. I'm not exactly sociable.” John bit back mentioning that he had, in fact, noticed that. Thomas had a number of admirable qualities, he had to admit, and was good at what he did, but it couldn't be said that he got along with people very easily. “How about you?”

“Me?” John repeated. “Sure, I'm good with women.” He certainly had plenty of experience in that area, despite never holding many relationships steady for long enough for them to become particularly serious.

“I meant, what's your family like? Anyone pining after you to come home?” He grinned. “It's only fair, Watson. You asked me about my life.”

“Oh, come on, Oachs,” John protested jovially. “You hardly revealed anything very personal.”

“What do you want from me? A list of everyone I've ever had, my hobbies, and a family tree?”

“Well, nothing that extensive,” John replied. “You have a sister?”

“Oh God,” Thomas sighed, lifting his cigarette to his lips. “Di is a bloody handful. Why, you want me to fix you up with her?”

“No thanks,” John declined with a smile. “I can get my own dates. I have a sister too, though. I bet she's worse than yours. Harry's always been a right mess. You got any other siblings?”

Thomas had hesitated at that, waiting to exhale a thin stream of smoke before replying. “I did. But he died a few years ago. He was in the army too.”

John was taken aback. He had no idea, or he wouldn't've asked. “Oh,” he simply said. “I'm sorry.”

They began slipping back into silence. Thomas flicked away the end of his cigarette. John felt like shit for ruining what had been turning into a pleasant conversation. He had been beginning to think that he and Thomas could get along well. It was certainly nice to share someone else's company after the end of that hellish day. “He was younger than me,” Thomas announced abruptly. John started. “I worried about him a lot. But was also proud that my brother wanted to do what I was doing. Turns out I was right to worry. Maybe if I'd tried to talk him out of joining the army...not that he would've listened to me. Guess I'll never know now.” Again, John was stricken with uncertainty about what he should say. In the end, afraid he would say the wrong thing, he didn't speak at all. Thomas continued on after a pause without his reply. “Sorry. I didn't mean to dump all my issues on you tonight, Watson. I honestly just came out to offer you a cigarette, see if you wanted company.”

“It's fine,” John assured him quickly. “Anytime you want to talk. Though, if we are doing the whole heart-to-heart thing, you might call me John.”

Thomas stood up with a nod, his expression creasing with a slight smile. “Thanks,” he said after moment.

John turned his head to look up at him. “Right, yeah. Maybe we'll chat again sometime.”

“That would be good,” Thomas nodded. “Goodnight.”

“You too,” John told him, turning away. “I don't know how I'll ever be able sleep, though.” He said it softly and almost to himself, but he still heard the reply behind him, Thomas's voice low.

“I know.”

It was the beginning of their unlikely friendship.

Hard as it was for John to admit it, he appreciated it more than any other friendship he had formed while part of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. It was the most surprising one, certainly. And though Thomas wasn't exactly the warmest mate, and they had their share of disagreements and personality clashes, John felt closer to him than he ever did to Benjamin or Bill or any of the others. It had been hard to let that go. But he never thought when he left Afghanistan that he would completely break off that friendship.

* * *

 “Stop, please,” John said abruptly to the cabbie. The black cab glided to a stop at the side of the road. John quickly slid out and began walking back the way he had come, propelling himself forward with his cane. It was ridiculous of him to give up on his friends now. Just because Sherlock had given up on him.

He rounded the corner back to Tom's street, limped up the steps, and pressed the bell impatiently, repeatedly. After a moment with no response, John raised his fist and began pounding on the sturdy black door. He would break in if he had to and insist on seeing Tom...or wait for his return if he really wasn't in. But no, that was a ridiculous plan. He wasn't going to get arrested for breaking and entering just because the bloody stupid man was too arrogant to speak to him. And it was a childish action to resort to. It was...something Sherlock would do.

He pulled out his mobile, and he dialed Tom's number, intent to talk to him, to convince the man to see him. But the phone rang out, and John bitterly ended the call as he reached voicemail. “Damn you,” he muttered, shoving it back in his pocket angrily, as if the phone had done him the offense. Again, he knocked forcefully on the door, his hand beginning to ache. This was stupid, he began to think. There was no way he would ever be let in like this. He would have to come up with a better plan to manage to get to Tom because this would obviously never -

The door was pulled back, instantly stopping his incessant abuse of it. Tom stood just past it, his face shadowed from the darkness of the hallway. Or maybe it was just the darkness of his expression. John pulled himself up straighter as if it would help him face his friend, reminding himself of the other varied battles he'd fought that held much more fear for him than Thomas Oachs. “Yes?” Tom asked. “Can I help you?” His voice was polite but deeply cut with an icy undertone.

“I want to talk,” John said.

Tom raised an eyebrow at him, making no move to open the door wider or invite him in. “Oh? Do you? How interesting.”

“Yes, I do. Please.” John replied, trying not to let his voice falter. “I'm sorry for everything I said to you before. I didn't mean it.”

“Really? I never would've guessed that. After all, you screamed everything at me so passionately. It seemed like you meant everything you said.”

This was obviously not going well at all. But what had John expected? With a sigh, he tried to explain himself. “I was angry. I've been angry, for a long time. It all just came out. I promise you, I didn't mean any of it.”

“Oh, but you're all better now?” Tom asked with sarcastic cheer. “How wonderful.”

This forced John to hesitate. “Well, no. Of course not.” His anger, his sorrow, all of those fierce emotions that had swallowed him nearly a year ago would take a while longer still to subside. But he was beginning to realize the damage he was causing by taking them out on the people who happened to be around him. His closest friends anyway. “Please, can I come inside? I want us to talk. Properly.”

The dark expression on Tom's face had not receded, but he still stepped back, opening the door more so John could limp inside.


End file.
